


Emphatically Do Not Leave Me Breathless

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Solar's 007 Fest 2019 [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Asthma, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: Q is an irresponsible asthmatic and Bond is a reasonably intimidating good Samaritan





	Emphatically Do Not Leave Me Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Day 11! Fills "Ice" on the [Random Prompt Table](https://mi6cafe.wordpress.com/007-fest/007-fest-2019-prompt-tables/) and Anon Prompt 23 on the [MI6 Cafe Prompt Exchange](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1LwtIoqppLgPC3D0bJ5HF7ZcIJEnNgGmQcm21977FGJc/edit#gid=628702862): Person A suffers an asthma attack in public. Person B is a helpful stranger.
> 
> Someone had to know I was coming for this prompt. And everyone who knows me had to know who I would make the asthmatic one.

It was his own fault, really.

Q hadn’t felt particularly well when he’d woken that morning—raspy and congested and sore in a way that suggested he’d been coughing in his sleep—but had soldiered on anyway. It was nothing new, after all; he’d had asthma since he was young, and the freezing wind in winter always brought out the worst in it. He’d just made himself a strong cup of peppermint tea and another of Earl grey, popped his inhaler in his bag and set off.

There were errands to be run, after all; he didn’t plan on wasting his day off lying about the flat because he _might_ have an asthma attack.

Of course, for all his conscientious preparation, he hadn’t actually remembered to bring a muffler with him.

He tried to hunker down beneath the collar of his coat and block the worst of the wind, but it wasn’t doing him much good. He could feel the icy air building up in his chest, the freezing prickle of constricting airways and overworked muscle that always came with attacks.

Q spent two blocks intermittently trying to cough the air back out of his lungs, only to suck in more frigid wind, and finally admitted defeat. He needed to stop and use his inhaler – and he would have, if only the sidewalk wasn’t so bloody congested.

Every time Q tried to step out of one person’s way, he bumped right into another, and the jostling wasn’t doing his breathing any favors. Normally, Q could navigate London foot traffic with the best of them, but normally he wasn’t trying to stop in the middle of it.

Q was beginning to feel a bit lightheaded, jarred by all of the coughing, and his fingers and lips were going tingly; if he didn’t get to use his inhaler soon, he’d become less of an obstacle and more of a speedbump. Most people were just stepping around him, some giving him concerned backwards looks—distantly, Q supposed he didn’t blame them; they didn’t know he had asthma, after all, and what if he was actually contagious?—but if someone would just _stop_ –

_“Move.”_

Q’s attention jerked in the direction of the voice that had just rang out from in front of him, and he attempted to move in near automatic response to the commanding tone, though he had nowhere to move _to._ He then realized that the man who had barked the order wasn’t even speaking to him; he’d slipped in front of Q without his notice—how, Q wasn’t sure, because the man wasn’t much taller than him but he was miles broader, _Christ_ , he had shoulders—and was telling everyone _else_ to move.

And they did.

Turning to Q, the man put one firm hand on his shoulder and in a much gentler tone of voice, instructed him, “Follow me.”

And Q did.

It did occur to Q as he followed the man who was muscling them a path through the crowd that this could very well have been an opportunistic abduction – it wasn’t like anyone else would notice. As he was still wheezing for air, however, Q decided he didn’t really care as long as the man let him use his inhaler before bundling him into an unmarked car or whatever it was kidnappers did.

Instead of abducting him, though, the man only led him a short way to a little coffee shop and ushered him in.

The warm air was a blessing, as was the empty table the man found them.

“Do you have medication?” the man asked.

Q, already scrabbling around in his bag for his inhaler, nodded shakily.

The first inhale was difficult to take and even more difficult to hold, but the exhale was pure relief.

Q coughed a few times, hand pressed to his ribs where the muscle was cramping up, then took a second pull from the inhaler.

As he let the second puff out with a long, shaking exhale, Q looked up to find the man watching him intently.

“Alright?” the man checked; his eyes were very blue and rather concerned, and if Q had had more energy, he might have actually blushed.

“I’m alright. Thank you,” Q rasped, wincing with an attempt to clear his throat; he was going to be feeling this attack for a couple of days, for sure.

“Let me get you something to drink,” the man offered. “For your throat.”

“I should be the one buying _you_ a drink,” Q argued. “You helped me out quite a bit just now.”

The man eyed Q with a skeptical little smirk that at once made Q bristle and thrill at the implied challenge. “If you feel like you can actually make it to the counter, I’ll gladly accept your offer of a drink.”

Scowling in a way he hoped was defiant, Q took a few steadying breaths and levered himself up from the table. He was shaking all over the way he always did after using his inhaler, but he was steady enough as he made his way to the counter. “What will you have?” he asked the man when he got there, gratified to see the bemused look on his face.

“An Americano,” the man said, more to Q than the barista.

Q ordered a mocha for himself, something sweet and hot and caffeinated to help his throat and further ease his breathing, and paid for both drinks before returning to the table. He didn’t have quite so much pride that he would continue standing uncomfortably by the counter rather than allowing the man to bring their drinks when they were ready.

Q took a grateful sip from his cup when it came, despite the heat of it, then extended a hand to the man. “My apologies for being unable to introduce myself sooner. Please, call me Q.”

“Bond,” the man replied, taking Q’s hand in a firm grip. “James Bond.”

“I’m sure it would be a pleasure to meet you, were the circumstances different.” Q gave Bond a rueful smile.

“It could still be a pleasure,” Bond replied with a little grin. “We haven’t even finished our drinks yet.”

Q smirked around the lid of his cup, looking over at Bond. “I suppose you’re right.”

They chatted a bit as they sat, sipping their drinks slowly and giving Q time to recover a little from his attack; talk turned from the sudden cold snap to the coffee shop to work. “Cyber security” wasn’t quite the truth when Q told Bond what he did for a living (at least, it wasn’t the _whole_ truth) but Bond’s returning answer of “international sales” didn’t seem quite truthful either, and Q found himself interested.

They moved from occupations to pastimes and were engaged in an interesting argument about scifi—Q tended towards dystopian novels where Bond preferred the classic adventures through time and space—by the time they finished their drinks, and Q glanced out the windows with a sigh. It didn’t appear to have gotten any warmer or any less windy.

“I suppose I should head home,” he said at a lull in the conversation.

“Will you make it?” Bond asked, his look only half teasing. “I can give you a ride, if you need.”

Q shot Bond a wry look. “You’ve done me a great favor, but I’m not getting into a perfect stranger’s car. Trust doesn’t go that far, Mr. Bond.”

“Wise,” Bond conceded. “But since you don’t seem to have any sort of muffler–”

“I _forgot–”_

“At least let me give you this.” Bond leaned across the table and in one quick move, transferred the dark blue scarf that had been draped over his shoulders to around Q’s neck.

Q’s hands came up automatically to grip the scarf; it was amazingly soft, but thick enough that it would adequately keep out the cold wind. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he said, aware that he was stroking the material even as he spoke. “How would I get it back to you?”

“You could give it back to me when I next see you,” Bond said reasonably.

“Oh?” Q bit down on the pleased grin that was threatening to form. “And when would that be?”

Bond shrugged. “When are you free?”

Brows raised, Q couldn’t help but at least smirk. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” he replied, to Bond’s apparent amusement. “Here, let me see your mobile a moment.”

When Bond handed the device over, Q used it to enter his number and then text himself, feeling his own mobile buzz in his pocket.

“There. Now you have my number and I have yours. We’ll figure out a way to get your scarf back to you,” Q said as he stood from the table, shouldering his bag.

“Well, hopefully a bit more than that,” Bond said, following Q to the door.

“We’ll see Mr. Bond.” Q gave Bond a sharp smile and took great care to wrap up with the scarf before stepping out into the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](https://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/186226586783/emphatically-do-not-leave-me-breathless-james) if that's more your thing


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